


Not Again

by Rainbow_Femme



Series: Don't Leave Me [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, PTSD Sherlock, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-16
Updated: 2014-09-20
Packaged: 2018-02-17 16:21:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2315849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rainbow_Femme/pseuds/Rainbow_Femme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock almost loses John forever during a case, and begins to suffer from PTSD as he fails to deal with what has happened.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Please Stay

Sherlock stood on the rooftop with his hands behind his head, smiling mockingly up at the gunman who had a rifle pointed at him. "Oh really now, we both know you aren't actually going to do anything!"  
John moved towards him agitatedly. "Sherlock, let's just go before we make things worse, there's no point in rubbing anyone's nose in this. Let's just go."  
"Oh come ON, John! Do you really think he'd shoot me? I know what he doesn't, I have what he wants! He can't kill me!" Sherlock's eyes were practically glowing with mirth, with the fun of it all. He turned to gloat at the gunman again but was stopped short by a deafening sound of gunfire, making him jump and cracking his confident demeanor.  
It only took him a moment to ground himself again. He checked himself and found no injuries, making the fun even better. "Trying to scare me, are you? Well it won't wo-" he stopped short as he caught sight of John, who was standing rather oddly, and facing slightly away from Sherlock. "John?" John looked over at him, his face pale. He then looked down at the hand that had been over his stomach, covered in blood. John swayed a moment, then began sinking to his knees. "John!"  
He caught the doctor before he hit the ground, holding him tightly. Oh god no, not John, oh god not John... He heard the gunman run off as Sherlock was distracted but he didn't care, he could feel the blood pumping from Johns body onto his clothes. He shifted John so he could see him. There didn't seem to be an exit wound, but the hole in Johns stomach was large and bleeding profusely. He quickly jerked the scarf from around his neck and balled it in his hand pressing it to Johns stomach.  
John cried out in pain, twisting and groaning. Sherlock swallowed thickly. "You're going to be alright John, you are going to be perfectly alright." He quickly called for an ambulance, giving the address and telling them to hurry. "A man is... A man has been shot, he needs help now." He couldn't make himself say that John was dying. He could not entertain the notion that anything would happen to his John. After hanging up, he tossed his phone to the side and held John, his limited medical experience telling him to keep pressure on the wound and keep the area elevated.  
John coughed painfully, reaching up weakly to wipe the blood from his mouth only to smear more on, both his hands drenched in it. "'s not good, is it?"  
Sherlock took a shaky breath. "It's fine, you're going to be fine. Just look at me John, keep looking at me, don't close your eyes, alright? You have got to stay awake until the ambulance gets here."  
John nodded slowly. "Sherlock, I... I never said it before, but I..."  
Sherlock shook his head roughly. "Don't say it, John. Just relax, alright? Anything you need to say you can tell me tomorrow when you're feeling better." He pressed the heel of his hand harder into the wound. He would not lose John! He couldn't lose him, John was everything to him.  
John shook his head weakly. "Have to say it now. Might not... Be able to again. Should now."  
Sherlock moved his hand, holding Johns face and turning it so they were looking at each other. "John Watson, you are not dying, do you hear me? Everything is going to be fine! You are going to be fine!"  
John looked into Sherlock's eyes. "I love you."  
Sherlock took a ragged breath. "I love you too. But don't you dare let this be the only time you say it, we can discuss all of this later when you're feeling better."  
John just smiled sadly. A pool of blood had been forming slowly around them. He thought dimly that it must be soaking into Sherlock's coat. Mrs. Hudson would have a field day trying to get those stains out. Gently, and with much effort, he lifted his hand to Sherlock's cheek and looked into his eyes. He had thought of doing this so many times and never had, and now that he was, it was too late. He could see Sherlock's mouth moving fervently but he couldn't hear what he was saying, it felt like he was falling away somewhere. Black began playing at the edge of his vision, and soon began taking it over. It was a struggle to breath, to focus, and it was harder to see Sherlock now. He could no longer feel his hand or the cool skin underneath. His last fleeting image was of Sherlock yelling... Something... Before everything went dark.  
Sherlock watched as Johns body went limp, his hand falling to his side. "John!" He began shaking him, trying desperately to wake him. "John! God, no, John! John!" His ears began to ring, he had to do something. Quickly, he whipped off his coat and began chest compressions, counting them out in his head, his hands shaking. John is going to be alright. He's going to wake up, and he is going to be alright. Everything is fine. But the chest compressions went on and John lay limp under his frantic hands, his soft eyes empty, blood slowly trickling from the side of his mouth.  
Sherlock wasn't sure when he started crying, all he knew was that soon he had lost count of the compressions and was shaking with the force of his sobs, croaking out Johns name and his own pleas for John to wake up, just wake up and be alright. He fell forward and grabbed onto the body of his doctor, holding him to his chest and sobbing. John couldn't be gone, this had to be a dream. A terrible, terrible dream he could wake from if he tried. He buried his face in Johns hair and sobbed, clutching him tighter to himself. He had to protect John, he had to protect him...  
And then hands were grabbing at him and at John. His first instinct was to swing at them, to protect John from them, but he soon saw that they were ambulance workers and he let them take John away from him. Lestrade was there, he was shaking Sherlock, asking questions he couldn't hear. He just stared at John, at the emergency workers cutting open his shirt and attempting to revive him. He watched Johns body jerk as the electricity was forced through it, attempting to jump start his heart as if it were an old car battery. And then, a few words did find their way to his ears. Someone yelling that they had a pulse. John was quickly moved from the rooftop, and the sound of the sirens lessened as it screamed towards the nearest hospital. Sherlock stared at his bloodstained hands for a minute more before pitching forward, unconscious.


	2. Tremors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John slowly recuperates while Sherlock struggles to deal with what has happened.

Sherlock came to consciousness in a stiff, awkward position on an uncomfortable mattress. His head was pounding with pain and he groaned, shifting, that not making it any better. He felt the tightness of stitches on his forehead and tried to remember what had happened. The night was foggy, he assumed Lestrade had recommended a high dose of whatever painkillers were available.  
It took only a moment for the events of the previous night to come flooding back to him, and he felt nausea building quickly inside him. John... Oh god where was John?  
He opened his eyes to blinding lights flooding into a room much whiter than it had any right to be. He forced himself into a sitting position and looked about. It was a double room and a curtain was drawn around the other bed. He swung his legs over the side of his own bed only to be struck with an intense dizziness and vertigo. He caught himself from falling only narrowly, grabbing onto the nearby bed rail. The curtain jerked to the side, and he saw the pale face of his doctor.  
"John!" He swung the curtain the rest of the way around and lurched forward for a better look. John was there alright. He was laying silently, surrounded by a myriad of beeping machines. But John was alive. Oh god, he was here and he was alive. Sherlock grabbed Johns hand and held it in both of his own, feeling the wonderful pulsing of blood under his fingers. He dropped to his knees next to the bed, pressing his forehead against the rail and holding Johns hand like it was a lifeline. For once, no thoughts intruded. He focused only on the soft, consistent beat of Johns pulse in his hands  
\--  
It was another week before John came home. Sherlock was not allowed to stay for more than the first day, but he spent every minute of visiting hours by Johns side.  
4 days after the incident, Sherlock was sitting at the end of Johns hospital bed, reading aloud encouraging comments from his blog and making fun of the senders.  
"Oh you'll like this one, John. 'London is behind you, John, you can do it!' Funny how none of London has come to see if you're actually alright."  
"Sure is funny." The hoarse, soft voice replied. Slowly, Sherlock looked up from the laptop screen. John was slumped against his pillows and smiling tiredly, blinking blearily.  
"John!" He scrambled to his feet and rushed to the head of the bed. Nurses came in and began running tests, working around Sherlock as he refused to move from his spot by Johns head, staring at him in wonder, forcing himself to truly believe that this was happening, John had come back to him. John, for his own credit, tolerated the poking and prodding and answered all their questions, his eyes fixed on Sherlock.  
And now, Sherlock was going over the apartment once again, making sure everything was as John would like it. His books were by the couch and his chair so he would not have to get up to read them, the tea would be ready soon and his laptop was full of battery. All he could do now was anxiously wait. He was not much of a cook, but luckily many people had stopped by to bring dishes. Mrs. Hudson had made up all sorts of foods that could be easily microwaved or popped into the oven, Angelo had sent up some cold desserts and even Lestrade had brought some pre packaged meals by. Sherlock was debating what to make John for dinner, or if perhaps they should try something light, when he heard the doorknob turning.  
John walked in, and they both stood there for a moment silently, the unspoken truth that neither had expected John to see their home again hanging in the air. Without speaking, they both moved forward and into each other's arms, clutching tightly and trembling. The exhaustion of what they had been through began to truly hit them, and they held on to one another for support, fists clenching handfulls of coat and hair and anything they could cling to of the other. Sherlock inhaled deeply, Johns clean, sharp scent dulled by hospital soap but still there all the same. Sherlock had slept with one of Johns jackets balled up by his head, and it had started to lose its wonderful John scent. But now he needed no replacement, his real John was home and in his arms at last. And he was going to stop at nothing to keep him there at all costs.  
John broke away first, forcing a tired smile. "It's good to be home again."  
Sherlock smiled too, feeling a bit awkward, small talk difficult, any talk after what they'd been through difficult. Neither could bring themselves to bring it up, but nothing else seemed substantial enough. "It's good to have you home, John. I was just going to..." He gestured to the kitchen, leaving dinner options open to John, who smiled. "Anything you want, really. I think I'll lie down a bit, I'm still rather tired." Sherlock nodded and went to the kitchen as John went to the livingroom. Despite the awkward start, there was no better sound than that of John bumping around the apartment once again, swearing under his breath as he knocked against an endtable before settling down against the worn cushions.  
Sherlock walked back into the livingroom with the tray only to become frozen to the spot. John was lying on the couch quietly, his eyes closed, his arm limp by his side. "John?" He tried to keep his voice casual, tried to stay calm. John was taking a nap. That's all, just taking a nap. But John was not waking. He cleared his throat, raising his voice a little. "J-John?" He moved closer, putting the tray on his own chair. Flashes of the other night playing before his eyes. John on the couch, and then John on the roof. John surrounded by blood. John not breathing. "John?" Still, John lay motionless. His hands began to shake. No, this wasn't happening. John was fine, he was fine! They had just talked, he'd seemed perfectly fine.  
Sherlock lightly shook Johns shoulder. "John?" He took a trembling breath, shaking harder. "John!"  
John bolted upright, forehead hitting Sherlock's and both recoiling in pain. "Wha- What's happening, what's wrong?" John looked around blearily, blinking and rubbing his eyes. "Sherlock, what's going on?"  
He just looked at him, his hands shaking. John had looked so still, god so still. Like before, like when he'd lost him. He couldn't lose him again, not again. God, not again. He tried to calm himself but he couldn't, couldn't stop trembling. Couldn't stop seeing images of John on that roof, couldn't stop feeling Johns blood running onto his hands.  
John frowned. "Hey, what is it?" He got down on the floor beside Sherlock, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Sherlock, what's wrong? What happened?"  
He just shook his head, closing his eyes. "I'm sorry, it was nothing. Just a mistake, it was nothing."  
John nodded slowly, unconvinced. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock, let him sag against his body, pretended not to feel the fearful trembling or the shaking breaths. He just quietly pressed his lips to Sherlock's head and rubbed his hands up and down his back gently.  
"I'm so sorry, John. It won't happen again."


	3. Close Your Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock finally admits his problem to John.

Sherlock knew he couldn't risk another outburst like his last without taking the chance of losing John. Their relationship, whatever it was, was still too new. John could still run if he wanted. No one would blame him. It had been Sherlock's fault John was injured in the first place, no one would think it strange if he cut Sherlock from his life forever.  
He sat on the edge of his bed quietly, listening to John in the shower. He tried to make his hands stop shaking. Whenever John wasn't in the room, they began to shake. He tried to take a few deep breaths, clenching his fists tightly. John was in the shower. The shower was running. He was here. He had been for three weeks now. Everything was fine.  
But there was one part of his mind, a fairly new part as well as a strong one, that whispered that no one else had seen John since he got home. He had been recuperating solely in their flat.  
No! John was real, he was here. He pressed his face into his hands, but that part of his brain wouldn't turn off. Images of John dying in that hospital instead of waking up, and Sherlock only thinking he'd woken up. People brought food when one was grieving a loss. They hadn't taken any cases, so no one else had seen John.  
Sherlock shot to his feet, refusing to listen but feeling doubt and panic take over. Quietly, he ran to the stairs and called for Mrs. Hudson.  
John emerged from the shower with his towel hanging low about his hips, his relationship with Sherlock having progressed further over the weeks that he had become more lax with his dressing. However, he had not expected to find Mrs. Hudson when he came out.  
"Jesus! I-I'm sorry, let me just..." He quickly covered himself more as Mrs. Hudson squeaked and covered her face.  
"Oh I'm so sorry John! Sherlock wanted me to grab something for him but I'll just be going..." Blindly she felt around for the candle stick on the nightstand before running out, closing the door behind her. Red faced and more than a little put off, John got dressed.  
Outside, Mrs. Hudson wagged a finger at Sherlock. "Oh you! You should have told me he was in the shower! A woman my age, Sherlock! I can't be seeing those things. And poor John looks a mess now, I'm sure I've frightened him right out of his wits."  
Sherlock didn't pay much attention, he simply covered his face with one hand and silently held out the other for the candle stick. She huffed and handed it to him before walking out.  
The now familiar sense of relief and terror flooded through him. John was here, but once again he had fallen prey to his fears, and had gone far too far to try and prove John was alright. He just couldn't think straight when the fears took him. He just ran blindly on instinct, something he could not afford to do.  
Part of him thought that perhaps he should leave John entirely. John would no longer be in the line of fire, and Sherlock would get his mind back. But the mere thought was like an ice pick through his heart. No, he was too selfish, he admitted to himself. He had to be with John. He could no longer survive anywhere else but by his doctor's side.  
Drawing in a slow, deep breath, he went back into the room they had recently begun sharing. John was dressing for bed and raised his eyebrows when he saw Sherlock. "And what was that all about? I can't think of any reason you had to make Mrs. Hudson come all the way-"  
Before he could finish, Sherlock engulfed him in a hug, pressing his face into Johns hair."Forgive me, John. I didn't think."  
John rolled his eyes. "Right. When do YOU ever stop thinking?" But he hugged Sherlock back, Sherlock's heart settling as he felt John burrow into his arms. John felt so good here, so right. If he could just freeze time, keep John right here, then everything would be fine. He just had to keep John safe, he had to. Without John, he would die. He had found what it was like to know companionship, acceptance, friendship, even love. He just wanted to keep John right here, forever.  
But life does not work that way, and John moved from his arms into bed, putting on his reading glasses and grabbing a book. Sherlock dressed for bed himself, trying to calm his racing thoughts, and was soon asleep, the exhaustion of today's panic draining him considerably.  
In his dream, they were walking to a crime scene. They nodded to Lestrade as they walked inside and were pointed over to the body that was sprawled on the floor. As he bent to inspect it, he saw it had Johns face. He cast about desperately, asking where John had gone, but everyone just pointed to the body on the floor. Living John was nowhere to be found. The police officers put handcuffs on him, asking why he'd killed John. He tried to struggle, tried to tell them he hadn't hurt John, he would never hurt John, but they just kept pointing to his body and saying that Sherlock killed him, it was his fault, his fault.  
Sherlock jerked awake, gasping for air, his hair a mess of sweaty, matted curls. John jerked awake too, sitting up. "Sherlock, what's wrong? What's going on?"  
And he couldn't keep it inside anymore. He couldn't lock his feelings away. Too long he had been around John, he had become accustomed to showing emotions, feeling safe enough to open himself to another human. His wall was broken and could not hold back his feelings anymore. He was completely at John's mercy. He broke down, running his hands through his hair. "I killed you, John. It was my fault, on that roof. I wanted to prove I was clever, I didn't listen to you. You DIED because of me! And I couldn't save you! I did everything right, everything you're supposed to, and you still died. And I couldn't revive you, they had to do it. You died because of me and I was completely helpless." He covered his mouth and closed his eyes, trying to calm himself but waiting for John to leave. To agree it was all his fault, to say he should never have gone back to live with Sherlock.  
But instead, two strong arms encircled him, pulling him to Johns steady body. "It wasn't your fault. Sure, you should have listened to me, but loads of times if you had listened to me, we probably would have been killed or worse. It's ok to be wrong sometimes, Sherlock. As much as I know you hate to admit it, you are just as human as the rest of us. I know what I'm getting into every time I go on a case with you. My safety is as much my responsibility as it is yours."  
Sherlock shook his head. "I just can't get over this fear, John. It's eating me inside. I can't think, I can't breathe. I'm so terrified of losing you that it's consuming me."  
John stroked Sherlock's cheek gently. "Then let me HELP. I know what that feels like. The helplessness, the guilt, the panic. You don't have to go through this alone, Sherlock."  
He nodded slowly. "Every night, I dream you die. It's always different, but I can never save you. I wake up thinking you're dead." He took a deep breath, ashamed. "That's why I suggested we sleep in the same room. When I wake up, I think I've lost you again. I can't rest until I'm sure you're alright."  
John nodded. "I have an idea then. Here, lie down." He guided Sherlock gently to lie down beside him, but shifted him down a bit. He gently pulled Sherlock towards him until his face was pressed gently to Johns neck, Johns pulse beating softly against his cheek. "This way when you wake up, the first thing you'll know is that I'm alright. Then you can fall back asleep knowing everything is ok."  
Sherlock smiled softly despite himself. Oh he did truly love John. He didn't know what he had ever done without him, but he knew he did not ever want to go back to a life without his doctor, his lover, his best friend.


End file.
